


Coffee

by Laure001



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:17:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9185318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laure001/pseuds/Laure001
Summary: Quinn goes upstairs from the basement to have coffee with Carrie. Once. Twice. And, then, one day...Complete!





	1. Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Ascloseasthis who edited this story!!!

The main doorbell rings, and Carrie answers almost instantly, and then watches him with a befuddled air. She stares at him, moments pass, “Can I come in?” Quinn asks after a few seconds silence. The exasperation and anger are audible in his voice, and she tenses. 

"Frannie is here,” she answers. 

Nice. She doesn't even trust him in the company of her child. 

“I'll behave,” he grinds. 

Carrie takes a step back, he enters the house, she leads him into the kitchen, she doesn’t sit down, she's cold and angry and pained, well, yesterday, he threw a mug at her. I mean, he threw a mug at the basement’s window - because Carrie was on the other side. Strangely enough, that didn't put her in the best of moods. 

Who cares. I mean Quinn is not in the best of moods either. 

Now they’re in the kitchen.

“What do you want?” she asks, in an icy voice.

“Coffee, thank you.“

She stares at him for two seconds, astounded by his gall, she hesitates, then she begins to make coffee, and then she turns the electric kettle on. He sits down at the kitchen table, without waiting for an invitation. 

Silence. The coffee is dripping. 

He is here because... 

He is here because this morning, she stopped by to bring him his new meds. I mean, he threw a mug at her the day before. And this morning at 8:30, she opened that fucking locked door, at the top of those fucking stairs, she walked down in the basement, and put his meds on the table. She was very pale. He was lying on the bed. When he saw her, he stood up, and she flinched. 

She _flinched_. She had never flinched before. Not before him. He didn’t make another move – she nodded, and walked up again. 

So that's why he's here, right now. In her home. On this chair, in her kitchen. Because she flinched. 

The coffee is still dripping.

Silence.

“Great conversation,” he comments. Why doesn't she have an espresso machine, he thinks, a fancy New Yorker like her? He wants to tell her - with dripping irony (dripping like that fucking coffee) but he's afraid it’s going to get mangled, like the words won't make it all the way to his tongue or something. 

But the "Great Conversation" is enough. Carrie turns to him with a neutral expression on her face. 

“Hi. How are you doing, Quinn?” 

“Fucking wonderful.” Irony and anger again. 

Carrie stops talking. And she doesn't sit down. Well, that was not the goal, the goal was... He's not sure. To apologize? Maybe not. Maybe. 

So, silence, still. The kettle stops. The coffee has finished dripping, Quinn doesn’t want her to serve him, so he stands up, grabs a mug on the counter – and she tenses, instantly. Which makes _him_ edgy and the mug falls and breaks on the floor and she almost jumps away, she’s so afraid. 

He freezes. She has recoiled from him. Actually recoiled, in fear.

There is the worse pause ever. 

He crouches on the floor to tidy up the mess. “Wait, no,” Carrie says.

He shakes his head. “I should go.” 

“No!” Carrie protests, instantly – maybe because that’s the first time his voice was… genuine, “wait,” she whispers.” “I’ll get you another. I…”

“Are you going to be punished?” Frannie asks.

She is standing at the kitchen entrance. Four years old and red hair and navy blue clothes and watching the mess with a fearful expression on her face.

Quinn rises. “What? No,” he says, and then he looks at Carrie – who’s stunned.

“Frannie, honey… I never punished you for breaking things – did I?”

“No,” Frannie whispers. "But Lola got punished. She broke her dad’s laptop and she was punished.”

“Well,” Carrie muses. “A laptop, that’s different.”

“You are Quinn?” Frannie asks. “You live in the basement?”

“Yes,” Quinn says. “Hello, Frannie.”

And that is all. Silence. The broken mug is still on the floor. Carrie pours him a new cup of coffee, she gives a glass of orange juice to Frannie. Frannie sits down, Quinn sits down again, Carrie makes herself some tea.

They drink in silence – not a companionable silence, but not a horrible silence either.

“Now go to your room, Frannie,” Carrie orders – Quinn doesn’t say anything. So Carrie does trust him with her daughter. Just no longer than two minutes. 

He can’t talk for a while. It’s like something is choking him. Frannie protests, but her mom doesn’t cave, and soon enough she is gone.

Quinn cannot even speak. 

New silence.

Carrie tries. 

“So, Quinn, how was the… the…”

She stops. Touches her forehead in that way she does.

“Fuck. I don’t even know what to ask. You want a conversation, find a fucking topic of conversation.”

That’s where you apologize, Quinn thinks. “You look older,” he states.

Carrie strangles a laugh. “Fuck you.” But there is a hint of amusement in her eyes, and Quinn goes on. 

“And exhausted.”

“Yeah,” she answers, slowly.

Then she stands up again, brusquely, and washes her mug and begins to tidy up the mess on the floor – Quinn crouches down to help her, he’s very clumsy but Carrie pretends he’s actually helping and they both stand up again and she walks to the bin and he washes his hands at the sink and when he backs away from the sink he bumps into her – “Sorry,” she says – “Sorry,” he says – and she washes her hands at the sink also and he has a flash back. 

Except it’s not a flashback. It’s just a flash. An illusion. A vision. Not of something that was, but of something that could have been. Both of them, in this kitchen, with this table, with these chairs, and he’s backing up from the sink and he bumps into her and she laughs, “Sorry”, she says, smiling, before kissing him – a brief kiss on the lips – then she goes to wash her hands too, and he put his hands on her waist briefly, to pass between her and the table, “Sorry”, he says, and his hands linger, and…

And then he’s back. In reality. He’s standing there like a moron. Carrie has her eyes lowered, she’s fixating on the sink – and then she looks up at him – and there’s – it’s stupid, but for a moment - for a fleeting second, he thinks maybe she saw – maybe she felt the same thing – that flash - it’s crazy of course but – 

She lowers his eyes again. He steps aside.

“I’d better go.”

“Ok,” she says, not looking at him, but he can feel it. Again. The pain. The exhaustion.

“Next time I could bring something,” he adds. And he doesn’t dare look at her. Because, what if she says “no.” What if she says “not while Frannie’s here.” What if she says, “sure, of course, come by, in a few months, when you’re better.”

She says: “You could bring a mug.” 

Maybe her voice is trembling a little.

“Yeah. Ok.” 

Maybe his too.

Silence.

“I…” He begins. 

Perfect time for an apology.

But his voice dies - and he can’t. But also, he can’t go. He is stuck here, in this stupid kitchen. He can’t move. Carrie doesn’t say anything, so finally he mans up and he does leave, she follows him to the main door, he’s standing on the steps, she hesitates, like she’s going to say something, she doesn’t, but her eyes are all… soft and he – his throat is so tight – and he can’t… look at her, he just can’t, he walks away, and he doesn’t know why, but his heart is beating like crazy.


	2. Mugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Ascloseasthis who is still editing this story!

It’s still dark in the mornings. Twice a week, around 7:30, Carrie goes down the stairs to the basement and puts things on the table, for him. Documentation about recovery methods. Medicine, from prescriptions she filled, when she doesn’t trust him to.

At first, he hates it. Carrie, deigning to come down from her glossy castle to visit the freak in the lower level. But days pass, and after that coffee, and that conversation, the other day, he - it’s difficult to explain. But he kind of likes that she is there. In his bedroom, in the obscurity of dawn. Protected from the cold outside. 

When she visits he is generally already up, preparing instant coffee, making the bed, or coming out the shower (with his clothes on). He doesn’t say a word, she doesn’t say a word, but they’re sharing the space. For a whole minute, sometimes more.

One morning, he wakes up, she’s sitting on his bed, besides him, her hand on his chest. He doesn’t move, his eyes are closed but he knows the expression on her face; outside a cold wind blows, it’s cozy inside, the lights are on, and then he wakes up.

But Carrie does come for real, later, to drop off something. 

**

They have another huge fight. 

He doesn’t want to go to physical therapy. He gives it an honest try. He takes the fucking bus to the fucking hospital and enters that fucking hall to feel instantly sick, actual nausea, claustrophobia, panic. He gets out, instantly, and finds himself in the parking lot. Breathing in, breathing out. When he turns away to leave, there is Carrie, arms crossed, looking all disapproving and shit.

“Who got you off your leash?” he seethes.

“Why are you not in physical therapy?”

“Are you fucking watching me?”

“Yes!” she says, a little too loudly, like she would love to shout but she’s restraining herself, and it drives him even crazier. Why doesn’t she shout? So he shouts, hoping she will, hoping she’ll disappear in a puff of smoke, something. 

And he does get to her after a while, they both shout, but at the end of the day he’s still in the basement, and she’s still upstairs.

**

She does not come down the next morning.

Or the next.

He’s glad. He doesn’t miss her. (In a puff of smoke, please.) One morning, he wakes up, she’s sitting on his bed, beside him, her hand on his chest. He doesn’t move, his eyes are closed; outside a cold wind blows.

“I know it’s not real,” he says.

She just looks at him.

When he wakes up, there are tears on his face.

**

The main doorbell rings, and Carrie answers almost instantly. Then she steps aside, coldly, so he can enter. 

“Frannie is here,” she warns – like the first time. 

Something hurts in his chest. Like she needs to warn him. That he shouldn’t, you know, yell at her. Or say “Who got you off your leash?” in front of her four year old daughter.

“I'll behave,” he says, not meeting her eyes. 

They go in the kitchen. Quinn has a paper bag, which he puts on the table. He pulls out two mugs – dark grey, no inscriptions, and Carrie has a strained smile. 

He thought about finding the right mugs, with the right inscription. With the right tone. But he didn’t know what the right tone was. Dark, bitter irony is getting old. Should have been something in-between. In-between irony and… who knows.

“Thank you,” Carrie says. Then: “Coffee? 

“Yes. Thank you.”

So she begins to make coffee, and turns the electric kettle on. He sits down at the kitchen table, without waiting for an invitation. 

Silence. 

The coffee is dripping.

He tries to talk, can’t. He wants to. But he doesn’t know what Carrie is doing these days. I guess he could ask, but he would just show how much out of it he is, and also he’s afraid he would not be able to make coherent sentences. At least not if they are too long. No problem with his thoughts – and he did make coherent sentences often before, with doctors, with the nurses, or yelling at Carrie, but somehow, he’s afraid he’s gonna mess it up now. 

So, silence.

“Great conversation,” she says. With a real smile.

“Funny,” he quips, instantly.

“So, how was physical therapy?”

“You’re a real co- comedian,” he answers, only slightly hesitating before finding the right word, but that was close. And suddenly he does find the words. “I can’t go back into this hospital. The walls are closing on me.” Carrie nods, not like she agrees, but like she wants him to go on. “But I am doing the fucking physical therapy.”

“How?” 

“At home.” He shakes his head. “I mean, downstairs. I do the exercises. They’re not…” He stops. Tries to find a metaphor. (It’s not brain surgery?) “I do the exercises,” he finally repeats.

Silence.

“You will find the words again,” Carrie says, after a pause. “Your brain is healing. Rewiring itself. The doctor said…”

He stops listening. Hates her a little bit.

“Why are you drinking tea?” he asks.

She stops. Looks at him curiously. “I just… do. Why?”

“You drank coffee.”

“I stopped. Well, I still drink coffee in the morning.”

“You drank a lot of coffee.”

“I changed, ok?”

New silence.

“So what are you working on?” he asks, finally.

It’s a huge effort. That sentence is so artificial, formal fucking bullshit. Fucking strangers doing indifferent chit chat, he hates it so much, but he has to say it, that’s the question he has to ask if he doesn’t want them both to drown in the dreary silence – Carrie answers – and it’s interesting. But she is still wary. And he is still a freak. So the conversation does die after a while.

“Listen,” she says after a particularly embarrassing pause, “Actually, I have things to do. Frannie is having some friends over, and I’m preparing… stuff. But please don’t go,” she adds, before he can react. “Finish your coffee.”

He nods, Carrie begins her preparations, getting food out of bags, arranging cookies on plates – not cooking, not baking anything – the most artisanal thing she’s does is cutting bits of apples; she uses the table sometimes so Quinn stands up, not to be in her way, he goes and leans on the opposite wall, still holding his coffee.

And he watches her.

She’s busy. Seemingly unconscious of his gaze on her. Her back at him, except when she’s putting something on the shelves on the left. Outside, the sky is clear, winter sun showing in, light filtering through the window, falling on the appliances, on the tiles, catching Carrie’s skin or hair sometimes. 

Traffic is lazy outside. 

The afternoon drifts on.

He can’t take his eyes off her.

There’s no vision this time. No “what could have been.” He’s watching it. The “what could have been” is unfolding in front of his eyes: both of them in the kitchen, the rays of sun, food, tea, life. Emotion rises slowly, no anger, no resentment, it’s much worse than that, it’s painful longing, deep sadness, want. 

Somebody casting a glance through the window could think that… That they… Carrie comes his way to put back the sugar in a cupboard besides him, she looks at him in passing, and catches his gaze, for a split second.

And she sees.

She doesn’t say anything. 

She put the sugar in place. She goes back near the counter. 

He’s choked up, again. 

It’s like his entire life is just a dark, ironic joke. A sardonic tragedy, where he’s hoping for things just out of reach, that are snatched from him in the worst way possible - and he would blame destiny, but he knows it’s him, too - and Carrie is again turning her back to him, but now she knows he’s watching her, she’s moving a whole different way, the kitchen is silent a whole different way, the sounds are different, he should feel ashamed, he thinks, or at least embarrassed of what she has seen in his eyes but he can’t – can’t hide it anyway – and suddenly she walks to him and kisses him on the cheek – not exactly, she kind of misses the spot, the kiss lands somewhere behind his temple – he’s frozen – she walks away, to the sink, turns to him again.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she whispers.

He just looks at her.

“You and me. We don’t have to hate each other, Quinn.” Then she adds, with the saddest smile, “well, you don’t have to hate me.”

Yeah. A joke.

A dark, ironic joke.

Someone somewhere is laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers, 
> 
> I just realized I had already written the ending of this story. It's my two twin fics "A perfect day" and "A very, very imperfect day". You can find them here:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5343158/chapters/20027311  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5343158/chapters/20196688  
> (Or, you click on my name, you go to "Endings", it's chapter 19 and chapter 20. )
> 
> Yep, this will be the official end to this story. Now, how to get them there... ;)


	3. Instant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody, come discuss Season 6, the Carrie/Quinn relationship and all things Homeland with us in our new community!
> 
> http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com/
> 
> Thank you again to Ascloseasthis who keeps editing this stupid story. :)

There is a war in the basement. No, two wars. 

First, Quinn is dying to go back up there, to the kitchen. To have coffee with her again. To have her kissing him (on the cheek) again. He would chop his right hand off just to be there, close to her. Fucking addict. And that's the point: it’s addiction. He won’t go down that road, that was bad enough the first time. He remembers Islamabad, sitting on the couch, in her room, being her "guy,” listening to her, watching her sleeping with other people. Fuck no. He won’t go back to that. 

The second war is also about addiction. So he is living in her basement, a drunk and a drug addict, paying symbolic rent. Nope. This is coming to a stop, right now. That’s what her fucking kiss will be good for: him getting the fuck out of here.

But to do this, he has to be healthy - healthy enough. Yeah, see, it’s all working perfectly. She kisses him (again, on the cheek), he gets clean. To get the fuck away from her, as quickly as possible.

Not going upstairs again. Nope. 

A week passes. Two weeks. 

She caves first. She comes down to see him. In the basement. At 4pm. The afternoon is grey, the bed is made, lights are on. “Hey,” she says. Looking around. Clearly embarrassed. He's at the table, writing, with a pen, like in the dark ages. He’s trying to work on his fine motor skills. He raises his head, stares at her with a genuine look of indifference... He's so focused on his hands, he needs a few seconds to be conscious of the situation again. 

She looks even more embarrassed. And he doesn’t want her here. Fuck no. Go away, witch. (No, he didn't get one letter wrong. It's a “w.” She's a sorceress, trying to get him under her spell again.) He looks back to his piece of paper. “What do you want?” 

She's a little taken aback. “Coffee?” she finally says. 

“I only have instant. And you don't drink coffee in the afternoon anyway.” 

“Well maybe this time I will...”

“Don't have tea either,” he interrupts. "And I'm busy."

“Okay,” she answers, slowly. Silence. Then she adds: “you're an asshole.” 

Her voice is not strong. It's even... shivering a little. She might even be fighting tears. 

Witch. Go away. He asks: 

“Are you still here?”

She stays frozen for a moment. Then she slowly gets back upstairs. 

**

After that, he can't write anymore. 

**

But she's Carrie, so of course she will try again. He is wondering, if she is going to try again. If she is going to come down again, ever. Every day, he kind of waits. When he hears her steps upstairs. When a door opens in the house and for a split second he thinks it might be that door, his heart misses a beat. 

(Witch.)

But she doesn’t come back.

One day, he dreams that he is the one who goes upstairs, the door is open – she has not locked it, as a sign, for him. So he looks for her, finds her in the living room, she sees him and smiles, he takes her in his arms.

Dumb dream.

**

The nightmare is one of the worst. Alone in the gas chamber - but at the same time he's in Syria, trying to get a woman out of that same gas chamber... He's trying to break the glass, but he can't shoot, the gun is not working; inside he's dying, it goes on and on, and he wakes up and Carrie is sitting on his bed, beside him, her hand on his chest. He doesn’t move. Outside, a cold wind blows. 

His eyes are still closed when he realizes it's not a dream this time. 

He's still half in dreamland though. Half in the gas chamber, half in his bed, silently making a checklist - yes, the hand is real. Yes, she is slowly stroking his chest. She's talking in a low voice, trying to reassure him, the mattress had shifted under her weight. This is real. The check list got him out of the dream, almost, a part of him is still holding that gun, "I tried to shoot but the trigger is stuck,” he explains to her, “I would have saved her if the trigger wasn’t stuck,” her answer is to lean down and kiss him tenderly on the lips, except of course _that_ didn’t happen. That was still dreamland. He didn’t pronounce the words aloud, she didn’t kiss him. But she's really present, her hand resting on his shoulder now. She has stopped talking. 

He keeps his eyes closed. His breathing slowly evens out. 

She watches him for a while (presumably) then stands up to leave. He catches her arm. She stops, right away, in the darkness. 

They stay unmoving for a moment. His eyes are open, they are looking at each other, she’s holding her breath. Finally he lets her go, and sits up. 

Another pause. She gets back on the bed, near him. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Why are you here?” he asks, in a low voice, and she freezes... Then stands up and begins to leave again. 

“No, it's not...” But she’s still walking away, he jumps from the bed, she’s climbing the stairs, he grabs her arm to stop her. "Carrie, it's not... It's not what I meant." 

"What did you mean?" she says - he does not need more light to discern the pain on her face. 

He can’t answer right away. “I-I'm not sure,” he stutters. “But I... Sit down.” 

She hesitates, then slowly she does sit, right there, in the middle of the stairs. He stays immobile a little longer - he is still in a transient state, some shreds of the dream drifting through, the gas, the gun, her lips on his, then he sits down too, it is cramped, their knees are touching, he is fighting conflicting emotions, lost in memories, only some of them real. 

“What did you mean?” she repeats, in a softer voice. 

He shakes his head. “I'm not sure. Sorry. I'm still halfway...” He gestures in the direction of the bed. “…there, I guess.” 

“It looked like a bad one.” 

“Yes.”

“I'm just trying to be your friend,” she states. 

“I don't need a friend.” 

He sees the fleeting look in her eyes and realizes with horror how his sentence could be interpreted. Oh God. It’s not what he meant... He just meant in the literal sense, he just... 

Carrie pauses, and he can see her taking the conscious decision to take it literally too. 

“Everybody needs a friend. Even me.”

“Manipulative bullshit,” he whispers, but not in a mean way, she has a small laugh, he puts the back of his head against the wall behind him, closes his eyes again. 

_Please don't leave,_ he thinks. 

Oh yes, he remembers them all, his wise resolutions, the “witches and spells” concept, but if she leaves he'll go back to sleep, and also they are sharing the same space again, like when she is coming down in the morning, except she hasn't done that in so long. 

She doesn’t leave. 

He feels her rearrange her position a little, he keeps his eyes closed, when he opens them she is like him, the back on her head upon the wall, he watches her for a while. 

“So, what's in those dreams?” she asks.

“Bad things. Mostly.” 

“Syria?”

“Yep.” 

“And...” She hesitates. “Berlin?”

He nods, feeling it again. Her lips, on his. 

_Hey, Carrie. Hi. Do you know that you just kissed me?_

“Do you have that feeling in your dreams sometimes,” he asks, slowly, because the words are still escaping him, “that feeling that you have several points of view? You're experimenting something… but also seeing it from the outside, at the same time?”

“Yes. And analyzing it, too. In my old CIA office, on my computer from fifteen years ago.” Carrie sighs. “Shit yes. It happens to me too fucking often.”

Silence falls, again. 

He closes his eyes, again.

_Please don’t leave._

She shifts her position a little, and his heart sinks. 

“Don't go,” he says, standing up. She gives him a surprised look, he raises his hand and orders: "Stay.”

He hears her chuckle while going down the stairs. He turns the kettle on, puts instant coffee in the mugs, she’s watching, thank God she does not offer to help, although it’s not that easy, with only one good arm, it would be better with the lights on, but he doesn’t want them on, in the darkness this is not really happening, it’s all deniable in the morning, he has this strange feeling, like what’s unfolding right now is beautiful, untrue, and painful, he waits for the water to boil, it takes a long time, (good), then sadly it’s ready and he fills up the mugs, he walks back up, gives her her coffee before sitting back down, in exactly the same position, now he is very conscious of their knees touching, very fucking conscious, and the pain increases - in his chest, somewhere.

They sip their coffee, slowly.

Minutes pass. 

There is a universe where he puts his hand on her thigh. 

There is another universe where he leans toward her, puts his hand on the side of her neck, and kisses her. 

There is a universe where she does. 

And then he is back in the real one, where it is dark and a little cold, and where nothing happens.

There is a universe where he kisses her, and they get down those fucking stairs, her hand in his, and go right to bed. How would she be with him then? Technical? Tender? Passionate? 

She takes a new sip of her coffee.

“Fuck,” she says. “This instant stuff is so fucking awful.”

He chuckles. “Yeah.”

She finishes her coffee, slowly.

How he wishes… You know.


	4. Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Ascloseasthis who tries to keep my madness, my commas and my "Dear Reader(s)" in check!
> 
> I feel a little guilty posting this happy (happy-ish?) chapter just after Episode 6.02 and its heart wrenching, beautiful scenes. 
> 
> This is not the same Quinn, he is in better shape in this AU. So I guess... Here goes something a little less tragic...

NO. 

Fuck no.

He won’t go back upstairs for coffee. No. He will not replace one addiction with another. He won’t. But he hears her – walking, her heels clicking on the floor above in the morning, Frannie’s happy voice, resonating in the house.

He has to get out of there. 

So he does, at least once a day. He does things, outside, far away, starting with that fucking physical therapy, as an outpatient. Yeah, suddenly it is possible to enter that hospital again. He also arranges for speech therapy, without Carrie's knowing. He thinks about a job. He volunteers. At charities, where they refuse his help. He got a haircut, new clothes, he’s trying to rebuild a life, but the look on people’s faces, when they meet him.

“You’re not in good shape,” a nice woman explains. “Come back when you've taken care of yourself.” 

Other are less polite. Whatever, he has a lead for a job, then it turns out to be nothing, and he’s exhausted. 

He can’t sleep. Since that night they spent talking on the stairs, she is everywhere. In his brain, in his dreams. (On his ceiling.)

He’s fighting the world. Fighting himself. Fighting Carrie. Something’s got to give. 

Something gives. One night, eyes opened, watching the ceiling. Three days, he’s been awake. And he ends up making a deal. With himself. 

God knows if it’s a defeat, or a victory, but the war is over. He’s not going to resist her anymore. Because he needs peace, he needs rest, he needs to not live in a constant state of self-hatred. He needs at least one good thing in his life. So – a truce. Friendship. With her. Even though, he knows, ok? He has no illusion about his motivation, but friendship is what’s on the table, so that’s what he’s gonna build. With her. That’s what he’s gonna expect. 

Not… fighting it anymore.

***

Upstairs, in the kitchen. The coffee is dripping. She’s turning the kettle on.

“See? Luxury coffee,” Carrie says, showing the pack she’d just used, a super sophisticated, hipster brand. “I mean, if you’re still addicted to the stuff, at least let’s make the experience pleasant, right?”

“Precisely,” he says, with an ironic smile.

“This is the best I could find,” she explains, and that does something to his stomach, the fact that she is buying coffee for him – looking for a good brand, expecting him to come back, hoping he will, after all these weeks.

“Sorry,” he says, after too long a pause. “It seems I also lost my ability to make normal conversation.” 

“Did you ever have it?” she quips. He makes a face at her, and she sits down. “You don’t realize the progress you made, Quinn. What you just said… It was a pretty complicated sentence.” 

“Fuck, are you going to judge me by my sentences now? What are the criteria? Word length? Grammar? Vocabulary?”

“Yes. And by the way, excellent answer again. I’d give it a B-plus.”

“Fuck you.” 

“Aw. No. Sorry. D-minus.”

He can’t help but chuckle.

**

Another day. The coffee is still dripping when he tells her, “I’ve been clean for thirteen weeks now. Except the meds, of course. I didn’t stop the meds.”

“I would hope so,” she says, pouring hot water in her tea mug. “But you mean… no drugs… no alcohol even?”

“Nope.” 

She doesn’t look at him right away, she carefully puts the kettle back, she stirs her tea, and when she looks at him at last her eyes are a little too shiny, and she seems so proud, so it is his turn to avoid her gaze. 

**

And then there is the perfect coffee. 

Or the perfect coffee date. Or the perfect coffee meeting, encounter, who cares what it’s named, he knows why it’s perfect. It’s because he is not fighting it. Because he has yielded. Stopped trying to control it.

He is sitting at the kitchen table, Carrie is making tea. He's watching her, silently. Not trying to make conversation, not searching for the right words, not being worried about the choice of topics. Just looking at her, not even pretending. 

“So, how is it going with the President?” he asks. 

And it's ok. He doesn't care if the question sounds formal or forced anymore, he doesn't care if it’s so fucking obvious he is looking for any excuse for conversation, warmth and connection. Because you know what? He is. 

Carrie sighs. “The situation is... complicated.”

“Why?” 

She explains, slowly, calmly. About the President and her dead son, about Dar and Saul and turf wars and blackmail and fucking politics. And the discussion just flows from there, he's not self-conscious anymore, he just says what he thinks. If his sentences stumble, well they do, if it’s not the right word, well, it’s not - she listens, she smiles, she laughs a little, it's a whole new Carrie, Quinn thinks, she’s not rambling about how incompetent people are or how she's surrounded by morons, she's just trying to do her job with as much serenity as she can muster, flashes of passion in her eyes sometimes, and fuck he's staring, so he tries to focus on his coffee again. 

**

Twice a week is the perfect routine. (He’s working for a little foundation now, as an interpreter, five times a month, for a symbolic fee). He comes up for coffee on Saturdays and Wednesdays; on Wednesdays, Carrie is getting off work early to take care of Frannie. So Frannie is part of their coffee dates often, although she generally gets bored quickly and runs away to play, but Quinn loves it when the kid’s there because then normalcy settles, the degree of intimacy gets higher, there is love, in the atmosphere, thick as invisible mist. Love from Carrie to Frannie. Love from Frannie to Carrie. Love from him to... the situation.

Sometimes he second-guesses himself, maybe he’s up there too often, maybe she wants more time alone with her daughter, but when he rings the bell and Carrie sees him there, she has that look. Light, shining in her eyes.

He's addicted to that now, too. 

And then she goes away for two weeks.

It's not that long, but it feels like a chasm. He’s not sure he’s going to survive it. The door of the basement is not locked anymore, Carrie had decided to leave it open a while ago, telling Quinn he could use the kitchen anytime, but he hasn’t done it yet. Carrie also asks him if he can check on Frannie and the nanny regularly while she’s gone – which is absurd, there is no reason to do it, must be to keep him in check, to keep him anchored. 

Anyway... Two weeks.

Then Carrie comes back. 

He's upstairs making pasta when she arrives– he’s there all the time now, if only to hang out with her ghost – it’s 7pm, the key turns in the lock and she comes in, crosses the hall, goes directly into the kitchen while getting her coat off, she sees him there, she smiles, not interrupting her movement, she puts the coat down on a chair, he watching her with a shy smile, he feels like she is taking this all in, the cooking, his presence, the evening. 

“Welcome home," he doesn't say. 

A little later, she asks him if there is enough pasta for her, he lies and say yes, he makes more while she is upstairs taking care of Frannie and dealing with the nanny, he even whips up a sauce, it's still difficult, all those little precise gestures, but he's doing it for her, and at last she comes down and they have dinner. 

They talk. About her trip, about what he did for two weeks. They are conversing in low voices, the light is low, outside the night is low, they don't say anything meaningful but his heart is in his throat, and she seems… moved. Raw. Fragile and happy, at the same time, he sees all of this in her eyes, and then sadly dinner comes to an end. 

He begins to do the dishes – again, not that easy - she's tidying up the table behind him. 

And suddenly she puts her hand on his back.

In passing. Because she has to walk between the table and the sink, and with him there it's a little crowded. 

_Except_ she didn't have to pass there. 

_Except_ she didn't have to put her hand here. 

_Except_ the hand stays too long. 

Then she's gone, putting the salt and the pepper back in place. 

The silence is deafening. 

He finishes the dishes. He turns off the water. He turns toward her - she gives him the quickest of looks - an imperceptible glance - before busying herself again. 

He stays immobile, near the sink, his thoughts running like crazy. 

It's not possible. He's... a freak. A cripple. Damaged. Finished. She hadn’t even wanted him when he’d been normal, she certainly doesn't want him now, he's going crazy, haunted by dreams, desires and torturous illusions. 

The silence goes on.

“I've... I'll go to sleep,” he says, he thinks his voice is... not… human. 

“Sure,” she says. “Yes. Good night.”

Not looking at him. 

“Ok,” he whispers. 

And he goes back down.

**

He cannot sleep all night. 

His back is burning, where she has touched him. 

He contemplates the ceiling. Feeling, by turns, exhilarated, desperate, dumb, delusional. It should be very simple. A woman touches you, apparently deliberately, in an ambiguous way. You want to fuck that woman. You turn around, you grab her waist, you kiss her, you move things to the bedroom. Simple, clear, a classic. 

That’s what he should have done. And if he was wrong, if he had misread the signs, then, he was wrong, better to know the truth, right? In any case. 

But. But in his fucked-up story … 

See… love. Love is not just romantic feelings and things entering stuff. When love is… right, when it’s healthy, when it’s long term, your whole life change. And for him, that situation, right there… it’s option A, or option B. Two very different existences, unfolding in front of him. One where he read the signs wrong. One where Carrie is not interested, where he stays in that basement for a while, then he goes away, with his pension, and lives a sort of half life – with a constant, gnawing desolation, finding short-term activities, not really settling into any of them, drifting, years pass, finally shacking up with a nameless woman because she has a house, and some sort of minimal income, and he’s getting old, and this is his last currency. 

And then there’s the second option. One where he didn’t read the signs wrong, one where Carrie is interested, and that’s what keeping him awake right now, this is why he’s restless, forget restless, this is why he’s turning crazy, because…

(Who cares about the other option? He has made his peace with it already.) 

Because. 

Real… love. Being understood, cherished, supported. Being greeted in the morning with a smile. Having a goal, a purpose again, not through the relationship exactly but because the relationship gives you strength and worth. Having her - yes, he is half exhilaration, half despair - he imagines touching her, he imagines that she’s looking at him when he does, he imagines that he is, in turn, giving her strength and worth, and love, and isn’t all of this a lot to have hanging on a simple, unclear gesture from Carrie? She touched his back, and now, there are two universes unfolding.

He could go upstairs, he thinks. Right now. The door is open. He could go to her bedroom, being prudent not to wake Frannie up, and he could… but rejection is too much of a risk. The stakes are just too high. 

Two universes. One where he is at his best, and then the other one. 

The night does not seem to end. 

**

But it does, though. And the city wakes up, and light filters through the curtains, and above his head, there is Frannie’s running and her happy voice and Carrie’s heels resonating on the floor and he dresses quickly and directly begins to climb the stairs, no, wait, fuck, he needs a pretext, he throws his instant coffee in the trash and takes an empty mug, and then at last he goes up, and as soon as he enters the kitchen, Carrie looks at him… and this is not a neutral look, Carrie has the look of someone who couldn’t sleep and has been fixating the ceiling all night, thinking about universe number one and universe number two, and God knows, if Frannie was not there and if the nanny hadn’t chosen this moment to come in, he would just cross the kitchen and kiss her senseless, and maybe his look conveys this, or his look conveys _something_ because they can’t keep their eyes away from each other and Carrie says – like something is caught in her throat - “I… I have to go.”  
“Why?” he asks, because it’s clear she does not mean to work, she shakes her head, and she seems distraught, their eyes are still locked, “the President…” she begins, and (long story short) it’s an emergency, and she does not know how long she’ll be gone, a few days, two weeks at most, she doesn’t know, and during her explanations the other, silent conversation goes on, but the nanny interrupts and soon enough Carrie is gone. 

** 

*Hey,* says the text from Carrie, four days later. *We are all still alive. Almost solved hunger and settled world peace. How’s New York surviving without me?*

*Barely,* he writes, without thinking, then the message is sent and he regrets it right away. *Terrorism soars as soon as people learn you’re out of town.*

*Not my job anymore,* she replies. Then he thinks the conversation’s over, but she sends, two hours later: *I miss our coffees.* 

He is unable to answer.

** 

Then she comes back. 

He's upstairs when she arrives – it’s 8 pm, the key turns in the lock and she comes in, crosses the hall, goes directly into the kitchen while getting her coat off, she sees him there, "welcome home," he says in a low voice, she smiles shyly in return, she seems very self conscious, he is too. 

“No pasta this time?” she asks, sitting down. 

“On it,” he answers, grabbing a pan. 

Frannie’s spent the last three days at Maggie’s, they’re alone in the house, and he knows he should not hope, maybe he’d misunderstood the whole thing, what does he base his illusions on anyway? She touched him once. And the next day she might have looked at him in a strange way – that’s all. But that is rational thought, and there’s no rationality at work here, his heart is pounding, they are completely silent, minutes pass, she goes to her bedroom to freshen up, when she comes down she walks near him, to watch the sauce bubbling, that lasts a few seconds, and then they sit down to eat. 

She tells him about her trip. He tells her about his week. They are both speaking in low voices, the light is low, the night is low. Everything is slow and tense, they are hardly looking at one another. Then the pasta is eaten, they clean the table, she goes to the sink, he pretends he wants to grab something and he puts his hand on her shoulder. 

Just a little too long. 

Then he walks away.

The silence is deafening. 

She starts the coffee. He pretends to look for sugar, really he can’t even breathe, the sugar is in his hands now, so he has to return to the table and put it there, he grabs the mugs, prepare the tea for her, “thank you,” she says, and she touches his arm, just lightly, so he grabs her waist and backs her against the fridge and kisses her. 

The coffee is still dripping. They're in the corner formed by the fridge on one side and the oven in another, the first kiss is short, two to three seconds, then another one, then another one again (there’s the microwave and the food and the kettle hissing and the night), another kiss, they can't let go, if they let go they'll disconnect, outside a cold wind blows and, no, they can’t stop, in that dark little room, hidden and safe. 

 

(To be continued!)


	5. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earlier, I said the ending of this fic was already written. It was those two twin stories:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5343158/chapters/20027311  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5343158/chapters/20196688  
> (Or, you click on Laure001, you go to "Endings", it's chapter 19 and chapter 20.)
> 
> But I changed my mind. So now you have two possible endings for "Coffee". 
> 
> \- You can stop at the end of the previous chapter, and then read the two stories I just mentioned. That will be Ending A.  
> \- Or, for Ending B, you have this chapter.
> 
> And of course, come and join us in our awesome community! http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Ascloseasthis who edited this story! If she wasn't here, you'd have grammar mistakes and Playmobils all over.

A light rain is falling. 

How they get to the basement he doesn’t remember, how they find themselves in his bed he doesn’t remember, how they get rid of their clothes he doesn’t remember. But now they are both naked, looking at each other, her eyes shiny and true; he is touching her, she is waiting for him to – her eyes never leaves his face – so he gets his hand there and makes her come, still watching her - it’s like he’s drunk – then it’s later and she is all over him, passion in her eyes – and he can’t believe she would – so he grabs her and kisses her desperately - the rain is still falling, there is no storm but it feels like a storm, flashes, moments, her skin, he’s inside her, they are mostly silent, except her moans, it’s like sounds would be distracting, so no noise except the rain, but he knows his eyes are giving him up – giving away everything – and now it’s dark, and they are asleep.

Except he’s not. 

She’s exhausted surely, just back from her trip, so she is sleeping, but he is in too strange a state. Awake, heart beating oddly, for an hour at least – he begins to doze off then, but the rain gets harder and he opens his eyes, the light is on for some reason, Carrie is awake too, so he rises up on his elbow and talks to her, but he cannot hear what he’s saying, because he’s also outside in the night, cold water falling, telling her “thank God we are inside,” and at the same time talking to her in bed, telling her something extremely important about him, she understands, she doesn’t even have to answer, he knows she is getting it, and then he wakes up - it’s dark, Carrie is sleeping, but the rain is real. Falling hard. He drifts back into slumber, this time he’s conscious that he is gliding, on and off, between the two realms; he lets it happen, driven by the tide, talking to Carrie in the golden light, having her total attention, also standing in the street outside, everything perfectly working, legs and arms and brain.

(“Such a miraculous recovery,” Rob says. 

[Rob? Strange choice .]

“Yes, it's as if it didn’t happen,” Quinn answers.)

Then he’s back in bed - Carrie has gone to sleep again, the dream Carrie, the one in the light, back in reality of course his leg and arm and brain are still – there is music somewhere, piano - real or false, he doesn’t want to find out, and then he falls asleep for real. 

**

He wakes up first. 

It’s 6.30. Not that early. Carrie is still sleeping, daylight filtering in the room. He gets up and climbs discreetly upstairs, starts the coffee machine, then waits, letting the day settle around him. Letting the images of the night – real or false - float in his mind. He is not analyzing it. He’s just feeling serene, waiting for her to come up. 

The coffee is dripping. Her steps, on the stairs. When she sees him she has that huge smile, so he smiles the same smile in return, he walks to her and takes her in his arms and then they just begin to kiss again, “Fuck, I do need coffee,” she protests, when they pause for a second, she’s still smiling though, she can’t stop, and that moment there, that's just unaltered, pure happiness, just basic euphoria, they drink their coffee, standing side by side, against the kitchen counter.

"I guess you have to go to work," he whispers, but even that fact is not spoiling the moment, the moment is pretty much unspoilable.

"Sure, I have to, but not right now," she answers, putting her mug down and looking right at him, so five seconds later they're fucking against that same counter (it's sturdy, but still, things get a little acrobatic.)

This is not dreamlike. This is not vague. This is not even romantic - there's nothing romantic in pasta boxes falling and macaroni spilling everywhere, or being careful not to burn your ass on the coffee pot - but it's great. It's wonderful. It's like they've been fucking forever, it’s at least 8:45 when she runs upstairs to take a shower - he’s trying to pick up all the macaroni, she runs back down, “I’m so fucking late,” she says happily, kissing him goodbye, leaving him alone in the house. 

**

“I’ve got to find a job,” he thinks instantly.

**

Yes, that is his first thought. Not something romantic, not doubts or fears or poetic maxims about true love. 

Just that he has to find a job, and fast.

**

Things only get better from there.

Because that’s what they both need. And even in his damaged state, despite all the abyss of self doubt and self hate he can still fall into, he cannot _not_ see it. How happy she is when she comes back, and he’s waiting for her. Not really waiting – cooking, or translating, his laptop on the kitchen table. Or the light in her eyes when he’s making tea and handing her her mug, or when he prepares coffee in the morning. She’s less stressed, less tense. Less consumed by guilt. He sees her getting happier, slowly, week after week. It does something to him in return, in his stomach, a sensation of pain mixed with gladness. 

And he’s an addict, after all, so he gets addicted to this. Making her happy. That smile, or that look when he’s doing something for her. Sometimes only his presence is doing the trick.

Yeah. 

That addiction, he can live with.

**

Then, drama happens.

For a really, really stupid reason. Reda comes to visit. And Reda is a handsome guy. Yeah, it’s ridiculous, but most fights between lovers are, right? So, see, Reda is supposed to come over at 5pm to work with Carrie, but for some reason he arrives earlier, and when Carrie leads him into the kitchen to get him some coffee, Quinn is still there, sorting out food. He’s in loose pants and a tee-shirt (at least his hair is short again), the brace on his leg is visible, and even if he’d regained most of his strength in his arm, sometimes it’s obvious he’s still struggling. 

Reda pauses, surprised. His look makes three things clear: 

\- He doesn’t know who Quinn is, 

\- He wasn’t expecting to find a man in Carrie’s kitchen, 

\- And a man who, let’s not sugarcoat it, doesn’t look that good.

“Hello there,” Reda says, with a polite distance that grates on Quinn’s nerves, instantly.

“Hello,” he answers.

Silence. Carrie doesn’t notice the awkwardness, or at least she pretends not to.

“Reda, this is Quinn,” she says, all business. “Quinn, you know who Reda is, right?”

Then she turns away to grab some mugs, and Quinn is so mad.

“Ok, um, glad to meet you, man,” Reda says, after a pause, when it becomes clear that Carrie is not going to say more. “So… we have to work,” he adds, in a clear ‘please get out of the room’ tone. “I didn’t know you were helping with this Relocating Veterans Program,” Reda adds in a low voice,” while Quinn is walking out, “good for you, Carrie,” and it’s clearly a ploy to learn more, but Carrie doesn’t bite, she changes the conversation to one of their cases, and Quinn is even more mad, so he reenters the kitchen, purposely. Reda and Carrie give him both a surprised look, Quinn smiles coldly, he oh so slowly takes a glass and fills it with orange juice, his gestures perfectly smooth and coordinated. 

And slow.

Taking all. His. Time.

Carrie sends him a dark, exasperated glance. Quinn just smiles, then he walks briskly into the living room, (not going back to the basement, nope). He seats on the couch, in full view of Reda and Carrie, he crosses his legs and pretends to relax in a very, “I live here, I fuck the owner, deal with it” attitude, Reda gives him a surprised look, Carrie gives him her Darth Vader look, Quinn doesn't budge, he takes a magazine from the coffee table and pretends to read it with the utmost attention, turning the pages very slowly - in truth he doesn't even see what's on them, he’s so busy trying to look casual. Reda and Carrie lower their voices, they keep working, Quinn thinks he can feel Carrie’s annoyance from there, her anger radiating, doesn't matter, he’s so fucking mad at her too, yes, for absolutely no valid reason whatsoever.

He reads every fucking page of that magazine. His eyes hurt and glaze over the text, sometimes he realizes he forgot the meaning of a word, and that gets him even angrier, the fact that that guy there in the kitchen got everything, brains and limbs, and a job, and a daily professional relationship with his… with Carrie, well fuck him, an hour passes, in the other room the work is done, they both stand up; Carrie says goodbye, Reda leaves, with a final, quick look at Quinn. 

Thirty seconds pass.

Carrie walks into the living room. 

“Hi,” she says. 

Tense, ironic smile. Ready to murder him. 

“I think I should pay for half of the expenses of the house,” Quinn answers. 

Carrie looks at him, flabbergasted. 

“What? Why… you already pay rent.”

“For the basement. But I use other parts of the house. The kitchen. Your coffee.” _Your bed_ , he doesn't say aloud, but it's implied. 

“This is ridiculous,” Carrie seethes. “The rent is fine.”

“I should participate. How much do you pay for this place anyway?” 

“You cannot afford it,” Carrie spits, and he just looks at her - they're staring at each other, both so angry - it's the perfect passive aggressive storm. 

Then of course Carrie escalates from “passive aggressive” to "aggressive aggressive."

“What the fuck is this about, Quinn?”

“Money,” he spits, instantly, “But apparently I don’t have any - hey, who cares. Have a good day.”

Then he storms downstairs. 

**

And because he’s an asshole, he leaves.

He packs up his bag and goes away. He takes a bus, from New York to nowhere, because clearly, this relationship is not going to work. He’s not going to get what he wants – what he wants is undefined – but perfectly clear at the same time. Also, Carrie thinks he’s so easy to get, right? That she just has to snap her fingers, he’ll be waiting for her in the basement – a kept man – like he’s hers, or something. Well, he won’t be hers. In fact, he won’t be there. She’ll see. She’ll come downstairs, and he’ll be gone, and he’d like to see the look on her face.

Then he visualizes that look. 

And – no. He wouldn’t.

See the look on her face, I mean.

**

He comes back on Friday morning after a five days absence. She leaves home a little later on Fridays, and he has to talk to her. 

The main doorbell rings, Carrie answers almost instantly, and watches him with a befuddled air. Quinn just enters, going right past her. He doesn’t feel sheepish, or guilty; he’s determined and desperate. Because he has no idea how she will – he can’t imagine her reaction, when he’s gonna say…

But he has to try.

He walks right into the kitchen, says hi to Frannie who’s playing in the living room, Carrie’s right behind him, quietly insulting him, calling him an asshole and crazy and a jerk and couldn’t he at least give her a phone call, it’s an interesting exercise, because she is saying all this in a voice low enough that Frannie cannot hear, but loud enough that he does, (Carrie has gone through an entire insult loop and now she’s back at “asshole”) suddenly Frannie seems to realize it’s really him, so she jumps to her feet and runs at Quinn and hugs him – well, she hugs mostly his legs – and Carrie stops talking, instantly. He stops walking, instantly.

They both got tears in their eyes.

But see – that – that is what he wants to talk about. Exactly, this. He crouches down and converses with Frannie for a moment, they banter a little, then Frannie runs back to the living room, Carrie turns away, she doesn’t want him to see her face, he guesses. She follows Frannie, turns on the TV, cartoons - anticipating the talk. 

Or ready to give the talk herself. Breaking up with him. Throwing him out. 

He makes coffee, slowly. He puts the kettle on. 

He has to talk first.

“Can you listen to me first?” he says, as soon as Carrie comes back.

“I am so fucking angry,” she begins. “I…”

“You don’t look like you’re angry,” he interrupts. “You look like you’re gonna cry. And like you’re so relieved to see me alive.”

She stays unmoving for a few seconds, mouth slightly agape. 

Truth. An interesting tool. 

“I want you to listen to me, Carrie,” he says, in a low voice. “It’s not going to last long.” Now, there’s fear in her eyes. “No – no - not that,” he adds, instantly. “I don’t want to leave again. I mean, if you…” He stops. “Just listen.”

He pauses, looks at the tiles. At the coffee machine. 

“You know…” He pauses – it’s embarrassing. He takes a deep breath.. “Since the stroke, since I woke up, I’ve had some strange, vivid dreams.” 

Carrie gives him a surprised look – she didn’t expect the conversation to go this way. 

“More than that,” he continues. “It’s difficult to explain. Like reality and dreams are… enmeshed. Don’t worry,” he adds, seeing her expression, “I don’t think it’s something that needs medicating. In fact, I wonder if I haven’t always been like this. I spent most of my life alone. Waiting. In hiding. Thinking. I was in my head, a lot.”

“Well,” she says, slowly. “You’ve never been the most talkative person.”

“Lying in the desert, for hours. Waiting, rifle in hand, pointed at a window. Busy brain.”

She has a quick, melancholic smile. She must know what it is to have your brain always on. Except they don’t have the same kind of “on.”

“Illusions. Daydreams,” he continues. “Maybe I confuse them with reality. Maybe I always did.” Then he adds: “I tried to get a job.”

Carrie looks at him, surprised by the non sequitur. But it’s not a non sequitur. It perfectly… sequits. Follows. Maybe she won’t get it. “Turns out the job market sucks. The best I could hope for is minimum wage, with no opportunity for advancement...”

“Quinn,” she starts. “You don't need to...”

He raises her hand and she shuts up. 

“I found more translation work though. And I think that has potential for growth.” She nods, he goes on. “But I had another idea. I contacted Rob, an old colleague of mine. From before. He always talked about getting out, but he never... You know the drill. I told him we could start a business together. He's interested.”

“Quinn, oh my God, that’s wonderful,” Carrie whispers, and here it is again, that light in her eyes. It's been a while. Five days. “This is so great.”

“Yes.” He smiles. “It is.” 

Yeah, it was great. Talking to Rob on the phone, in this dirty fast food joint near the bus station. Having somebody, from the outside, talking to him like a human being. An equal. Calling him "asshole." Fuck, he missed that. The company of men.

But he also missed... 

“This is my plan, Carrie. The pension, the translating work, and the future business. If it works, of course. So…” 

There's the hard part.

“So… I'd like to participate to the expenses of the house. And to Frannie’s. Won't be much at first, symbolic even, but it would be a start. And then I’d like to help... with Frannie. With everything... More officially. I’d like to be a partner.”

Carrie is watching him. “A partner?” she repeats, slowly.

“Yes. To… the house.”

That's all. His speech stops there. 

The silence is deafening. She’s studying him, like a code she wants to decrypt. Like there's anything to decrypt. Like it's not obvious. 

The silence lingers. Wheels are turning in Carrie’s brain, and he’s getting sick. Then he just can’t handle it anymore.

“Let’s not make a big deal out of this, Carrie. Just say yes or no.”

She shrugs. “Ok.”

“Ok? For…”

“Yes. Your whole proposition. Ok.”

He doesn’t answer, he just nods, and then she has to leave for work. 

**

When she comes back, in the evening, he is cooking, and something must have happened because she’s stressed and pale. 

“Is it work?” he asks, while Frannie comes running again, hugs her mother distractedly and runs back to finish her fort made with sofa cushions and her plastic knights.

“Yes,” Carrie says – God, she doesn’t look well – she sits down, puts her head in her hands, while he launches coffee and puts the kettle on. Then she explains. It is a fucked up affair, a Muslim woman – a mom - and this time Carrie couldn’t blackmail anyone to help her, and the woman’s gonna get 10 years, with two kids under eight, but that’s not even the worst, Carrie tells him, “it’s all of it, really, this Foundation, sometimes I think we’re just treading water, all that energy on administrative bullshit... I’m in this line of work to help people,” she adds, her voice is trembling, “and most of the time, I’m just fighting paperwork, and the system, and I just… Whatever I do, I can’t make people happy.”

Quinn doesn’t say anything for a while. He feels the presence of Frannie, playing joyously in the adjacent room. Him, here, with the coffee brewing, his laptop, the food.

“You’re making two people very happy,” he says, in a low voice.

Carrie freezes. She actually freezes, and stares at him. He sees it in her, the astonishment. The shock. The disbelief. The slow realization. 

He can’t smile, or joke, or even talk. He’s too moved. By her emotion. By the wave of feeling he sees rising in her. She can’t look at him anymore, he can’t look at her either, he thinks she’s at last taking it in, what she created, what the three of them are creating, and yes, the world around them, it’s a bitter place – getting worse every day, a spiral of hatred and loathing – but _them_ – the three of them – now, here - he sees her getting it, he should do something, he supposes, like sitting next to her, taking her hand - but he’s petrified, she is too, and it doesn’t matter, because she understands.

They both do.

The kitchen lights are on. Outside a cold wind blows.


End file.
